I step into the studio classroom for Foundational Figure and Form, one of the few modules I actually like, trying to leave the war in my head outside the door.
Andhefollows me in.
I spin around. “What the hell are you doing, following me around like a stray? Don’t you have a class to be in?”
His smirk widens, pleased with himself. “Following you?” he says lazily. “Baby girl, look around.” He spreads his hands. “Same class. What a small world. Rather charming, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’re telling me you’re taking Figure and Form?” I hiss.
“Indeed I am,” he purrs.
I want to stab him. Right here. Right now. Preferably in the neck. I am aware I sound like a broken record even to myself, but still…
“Aren’t you a bit old to still be in class?”
He just shrugs.
I turn and drop into a seat at the back. A few students sit scattered around, and every single one of them chooses to stare intently at their paper instead of at me… or at the beast who’s still shadowing my every move.
The psycho settles into the seat beside me.
I am not even surprised anymore.
I let out a slow breath, close my eyes, tilt my head back, and summon all the patience in the entire world.
“Are you always this worked up?” he asks.
I open my eyes slowly. Without acknowledging his question, I say, “There are plenty of empty seats. Go take another one,preferably far from me, and even more preferably in an entirely different building.”
His smile turns wicked. “Can’t do that.”
“You can’t manage the walk across the room?”
“I can,” he says easily. “I just won’t.” His eyes move over my face, intense, hungry… possessive in a way he has absolutely no right to be.
Before I can reply, the lecturer enters, fortunately or unfortunately, and clears his throat loudly.
His eyes catch on the man sitting next to me, and an unreadable expression crosses his face, but it passes just as quickly. He shakes his head and launches straight into instructions for warm up sketches.
The room settles.
I pull out my sketchpad, my pencils, the piece of charcoal I favour, and begin. My hand moves on instinct, the lines coming easily.
From beside me, I feel him shift, reaching into his bag. I see him take out his materials, and from the corner of my eye, I notice him sketching.
Curiosity kills the cat.
And at this point, it is bound to get me killed sooner rather than later.
And yet, I look out of the corner of my eye.
He is sketching, his focus fixed entirely on the page.
And he is… good.
No, he is better than good.
His lines are confident.
